ChrisCrossesCountries

Before we begin, let’s set some expectations. Before I set out on this trip I always had Morocco on my list of countries I wanted to visit, for long as I have been interested in travel I’ve had an interest in cultures and countries different than my own, no matter how drastically different or radically similar they may be I enjoy meeting the people, trying the food, learning the history, political system, what works and what doesn’t. I firmly believe that opening up and having those difficult conversations and confrontations makes a person wiser, compassionate and more understanding of how the world actually works. In my head Morocco was the perfect dip into North African and Islamic culture that I knew very little about. I had a little over two weeks booked in the country, landing in Marrakech in the center of the country for 2 nights and then making my way down to the a small village called Merzouga on the edge of the Saharra desert, then up to the ancient city of Fez, somehow get to the mountainous Blue City of Chefchaouen, and once again figure out a way to the City of White, Tangier on the Strait of Gibraltar across from Spain and Portugal.

Morocco was my first challenge in a culture that broke a lot of my illusions about travel. Although I met some incredible people and I got to check another item off my bucket list, there is still a feeling I did Morocco “wrong” by my own standards which to some might feel confusing but please allow me to elaborate. In my head the idea and concept of Morocco was a third world country, with winding deserts, wild domesticated animals wandering the streets, and merchants (Whatever the hell I thought that meant) would be on every corner trying to sell me trinkets and items of which I’d have to master the art of the haggle to get what I wanted. I legitimately had an idea and concept in my head that I would waltz off the airport runway, throw on my Indiana Jones hat and be able to navigate the streets, the vendors, shops and language barrier with no problems. Nothing could be further than what actually happened.

I landed in Marrakech airport at some time around 4pm, and immediately had problems at immigration. In all my infinite wisdom I didn’t bring a pen with me on my trip, and in a post-covid world of 2022 the Marrakech airport required an immigration form to be filled out with where I was coming from, what I did for a living, etcetera, and they did not provide any pens. I could’ve sworn it was the 21st century and we don’t need to use such tools like pens and pencils and paper anymore and I never thought to pack one. So I had to go to every passenger on my flight and grovel for a pen, most of which didn’t speak english and I had yet to get my hands on an eSim for Morocco and once again in my infinite wisdom had not downloaded the Moroccan language before I landed onto my Google translate app (PetzoldProTip, always do this before you land in a country) Eventually one of the immigration officers took pity on me and realized I couldn’t fill out my form and handed me his pen. I quickly filled out the form and got in line.

After a few minutes of waiting I got to the front and handed my form and passport to the man behind the glass for inspection. He looked over my form and passport and said something to me in English but because of the glass between us I could not understand a word he said. I asked him to repeat, and he yelled, “What do you do in the hospital?” Which I stood confused and dumbfounded. It then dawned on me that in my form I wrote down, “Hospitality” for a career and that this guy clearly thought I worked in a hospital, which was not necessarily true. I had quit my job about three weeks ago, but I figured putting down “Unemployed homeless person” would not look as good, and how could they verify what I said anyway? I quickly tried to explain to the officer as gently as I could that he misunderstood and I worked in a hotel not a hospital, to which he barked back “Then why don’t you write this?!” I paused for a second and apologized, expressing that if he wanted I would fill out a new form and get back in line, like most things in life you have to know when to pick your battles. This was not one worth the argument. The officer glared at me then his eyes wandered down to my passport, back to me, and then after a pause that felt like an eternity he stamped my passport and handed it back to me. I must have replayed this interaction one hundred times in my head since then and I still don’t know what the hell he was so mad about.

Now onto Marrakech. My grand adventure through Morocco starts now, I got my stamp, I got my backpack and I had the foresight to schedule a pickup from the airport to my Riad (For those not familiar with the term, a Riad is old houses owned by the upper class families in Morocco that have been turned into small hotels) in the “Old City” also known as the “Medina”. I had messaged my accommodation the day I booked it asking if they had a shuttle service to and from the airport and they did and I jumped at the opportunity, one thing I knew for certain about any airport was the vulture-like cab drivers would be after any white guy stepping off the tarmac to try and swindle them on overpriced transportation and I did not have the patience, or understanding of local prices to negotiate and barter in good faith. This as it turns out wouldn’t matter because as I would quickly find out, nearly everyone in Morocco is after your cash.

I met my driver outside the exit to the airport, holding a handwritten sign with my name on it and we were off to the Riad. The streets of Morocco were somewhat familiar to me in the sense of absolute chaos they bring. People crossing the street as if they wielded the authority of a King, cars honking and cutting each other off, motorbikes zipping in between the cars without a second thought. At the time it reminded me of Thailand, which I had first been to back in November of 2018 and the similarities and differences were now being cataloged in my brain for future review and comparison. 

The driver dropped me off about two blocks from where my Riad supposedly was, the street ended here and transformed into narrow alleyways that he wouldn’t have been able to drive down due to the foot traffic but without google maps and data I was as good as lost without him, and I’m sure the driver knew this because as he helped me with my backpack he said to me, “I have friend at end of street, he will help you.” and at the time once again I thought nothing of this, I assumed the friend worked for the Riad, or had some sort of deal with the driver to help out, so I nodded my head and the driver took out his phone and speaking Moroccan called the friend over to guide me through the alleys and to my Riad. I remember the friend as a short, fat balding little man with a thick beard and thicker accent. He led me through the maze-like streets of Marrakesh and I remember an intrusive thought that plagued my mind that he was going to try and mug me, a 6 ‘3 (190cm), 240lbs (108kg) man. I wasn’t too far off actually.

The friend of the driver took me down the street, around corners and through alleys to what I could only describe as a place that legitimately looked like the place you would conduct a murder and no one would notice. The walls seemed to be a mud brick style of construction with a light hue of red, there was no lighting, no markings of what the street was called, just wooden doors populated the walls. Eventually he stopped in one of the alleyways and turned to me, this was my Riad apparently. But he had strategically stopped in front of the door to the building, and demanded I pay him for his services, blocking my entrance with his tiny fat body. Two hundred Dirham, which is about twenty dollars USD.

Completely outrageous, especially when you consider I had already paid for transport with the driver just before. His argument was that money went to the Riad and driver, not to him directly. He was my “Tour Guide” for the moment and expected to be paid. Now understand that I absolutely detest haggling. I have never had the confidence even now to effectively barter down a price. I think this is a first world problem of being used to prices being set and knowing how much something is truly worth. I told the “guide” I wouldn’t pay him because we never agreed on a price beforehand, and he got angry with me saying I was ripping him off and he would go to the police.

Now with the benefit of hindsight, this was a ridiculous claim. I know now that in order to be a guide in Morocco you have to be licensed by the Moroccan government and pretending to be a guide can land you straight in prison. But stupid tourists such as myself, less than an hour in the country, do not know this. I folded, not wanting to escalate a stupid situation in a foreign country over something so trivial, but I only had about one hundred Dirham (Ten dollars) in my wallet at the time. I told him I could only pay him 70 DIrham, and surprisingly he accepted. I know now that he was just trying to push me over for what he could and got what he needed. Oh the beauty of hindsight. 

I checked into the Riad, frustrated but putting the previous encounter behind me to focus on the building in front of me. The first room where reception was located was an absolutely stunning marvel of a building with marble floors, beautiful paintings on the walls and I was given the top room on the rooftop, so I could see the sunrise first thing tomorrow. The rest of my evening I spent diligently doing reconnaissance to make sure I knew how to get back to the Riad. A word of advice when it comes to the Medinas of Morocco during my visit Google Maps, Citymapper, or any GPS system just straight up does not work in the alleys and backstreets of the old city the satellite locator is not accurate enough to figure out what street you are assuming they are even on the map to begin with. I started making notes of small landmarks and shops that I could bookmark in my mental map I was making of the old city. At this point it was late enough that most of the shops were closed in the Medina and only the centermost point of the city, Jemaa el-Fnaa, would be open.

Now if you recall, I was in Morocco at the end of November and that first evening was particularly cold and I had a 35L backpack filled with tshirts, socks, and underwear, with me and no jacket. With this reality setting in that Morocco was a desert and deserts get cold at night I set off to see what shops would be open to get myself a jacket. Wandering semi-aimlessly through the center of the Medina I was hounded by more merchants than I could count. 

Now for those who don’t know many shops in tourist traps like this will have “barkers” who are people who will stand outside restaurants and who’s entire job description is to try and get you to come into their little stall and spend money. In this case it’s all honestly a blur of Arab men shouting English catchphrases at me to get my attention and get me to sit at their food stand or come into their shop.  “My Friend! Walk this way!” “My friend, where are you from?! America! God Bless America! Come inside!” “American! See you later alligator! Come have a seat!” It does not stop. The thing is when these people see a white guy such as myself they are so progressive and forward thinking they don’t see race, gender or disabilities, what they see instead is a giant money bag. If you stare into their eyes you can actually see the dollar signs in the back of their skull begin to form the longer they talk to you.

Then suddenly for a reason I cannot explain, I made eye contact with a small frail old man sitting in a chair next to one of the streets littered with shops. He called me over and I found myself walking towards him and then with him down one of the dozens of alleys in the bazaar. Before I could process my stupidity of following a stranger down a dark alley, as fate would have it I found myself in one of the still open shops that sold clothes with this old guy. A younger, more fluent English speaking man came out from the back of the shop asking me what I was looking for, I figured I might as well try on some clothes and see what fit. After about 10 minutes of trying on different jackets I had enough. I absolutely hate clothes shopping in general, add on an annoying salesman who wants to haggle prices on everything from the clothes on the rack to the air I am breathing in his shop and you’ve found my own personal version of Hell. Eventually I got to my last nerve and told the younger guy I wasn’t interested in any of the jackets and thanked him for his time. As I tried to walk out he dropped the initial asking price from 194 Dirham ($20USD) to 145 Dirham ($15USD) and I was surprised he would ever go that low. I paused even though I wasn’t that interested in the jacket, but still decided against it. There were other shops that’d be open in the morning and I wanted to get back to my Riad. I shook my head and swiftly made my escape through the alley as the young man called out to me from behind.

A short time later I found myself in a new section of the Bazaar, where the restaurants and food vendors were. I moved through the mass of barkers and tourists, mindful of my pockets and what lay inside them. Now if you remember what I said about Google maps being completely useless in the Medina I was actually somewhat lost. I had only walked through this area of the bazaar once before and was trying to get my sense of direction back, which was getting increasingly difficult with the barkers coming up and trying to befriend me and to be honest with myself I was starving, I don’t think I had eaten since that morning before my flight so I decided to play their game and began looking in at what each vendor had for something that would be interesting and new for my first night in Morocco. 

I settled on a small little hole in the wall shop, they sold some sort of kebab with lamb and enough toppings that most of them will end up on the floor instead of your mouth when you attempt to bite into it. I don’t recall whether or not it was any good because as soon as I finished inhaling the food I turned around to find the old man from before standing behind me, with the last jacket I just tried on in hand. “Please my friend, buy the jacket. I will take 100 Dirham ($10USD). My daughter is sick and I need the money. Please my friend.”

Well shit. This guy found me about 20 minutes later in the middle of this mass of people and tourists, jacket in hand and tears in his eyes. At what point do you have to respect the hustle? I have absolutely no interest in buying this jacket, it has no insulation from the wind, its made of wool and I barely fit in it, but the man had impressed me by hunting me down. Now did I really believe that his daughter was sick? No, I am well aware these salesmen will say and do anything to get you to spend your money and I knew it was “low season” in Morocco right now, winter was fast approaching and the World Cup was ongoing, so I imagine tourism was at an all time low for Morocco, so every sale matters.

You may think less or more of me for this but I pulled out my money and handed him the cash, threw the jacket on and without a trace the old man disappeared into the crowd of people, thanking me profusely. The jacket was itchy and tight on my shoulders and arms, but it was now mine. Mission Accomplished I guess, I wouldn’t have room in my backpack for a second jacket so this was it.  I wandered for a few more minutes through the bazaar, realized how late it was getting as the last of the shops began to close up and made my way back to my Riad. Stray dogs and the homeless making their way out from shadows to stare at me. Tomorrow would be my first full day in Morocco and I had plans to see as much of the old city as I could.

I managed to make my way to the Riad with no difficulty, my recon was a success and I had a decent enough mental map of how to get to back. I entered the Riad, up the stairs and to my room on the top floor. My alarm set for 5am, ready to rise with the sun and take on the day.